


Factions

by Touchshriek (Valmouth)



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Closeted Character, Coming Out, Consider this one leg of Pratchett's Trousers of Time, Everybody gets a mention, Factions, Gen, I'm only tagging the important ones, M/M, Obviously everyone is fictionalised, Poor Roger, So 2009, So many names!, Sports, seriously
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-19
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-16 00:32:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7244998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Valmouth/pseuds/Touchshriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tennis was a solitary game, a competition between two or four. It was not a game for team allegiances.  But the wheels were now turning and battle lines were sketched. Sides were picked. First blood had been drawn and no one was bothering to ask why, content to stand by social contracts and play their parts. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so vicious.</p>
<p>Out of everything that could have happened, Roger had not expected to be the cause for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Factions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hydriotaphia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydriotaphia/gifts).



> Disclaimer: This is so outdated in terms of reality that I would hope no one could ever mistake it for anything but a complete work of fiction. I obviously own no rights to any of the people named herein or to any references at all that may have any actual real counterpart. I make no money from this and mean no offence by posting it.
> 
> A/N: Originally posted to the fedal_slash LJ comm in 2009.

There were factions within tennis- wheels within wheels; alliances that fluctuated from one week to the next.

It wasn’t unusual when the same people met around the world. The location of the player’s lounge varied but its occupants could be counted upon to contain familiar faces.

It was natural to gravitate to someone who fit a mood, a personality. Friendships could be made to suit any time frame between life and a day. Sometimes it was companionship for convenience, a way to alleviate boredom, and sometimes it was real interest shared between two or more.

Groups would surge and ebb around the room, larger at the start and growing smaller as the tournament swept on. Players occasionally stayed to watch; most carried on to other destinations without a backward glance.

On the whole nobody really bothered too much about the factions.

Until Roger.

It wasn’t entirely Roger’s fault. He wasn’t the sort who created dissent. The most he did was cause jealousy or annoyance but the general body of players looked on the expression of such emotions with unimpressed distaste. There was no place for squalid gang mentality in the world of tennis.

That, however, was before the bombshell hit.

It hadn’t begun as a scandal.

It began because Roger was talking to a group of people and inadvertently used the wrong pronoun. When Ancic called him on it, he laughed it off and said, “She, okay? I meant ‘her’.”

And that had been all.

Roger had gracefully extricated himself from the conversation and moved out of the group. If he seemed a little preoccupied after that, no one took much notice. Roger was the serious sort where tennis was concerned, and he had his moods the same as everyone else.

As the rounds continued and the players began to dwindle, there were less people to choose from. The player’s lounge got quieter. The locker rooms didn’t have the same influx coming and going. There was more at stake. People were more focused.

Roger went unnoticed for the most part, his presence taken for granted. 

And then somehow, there was a rumour going around that the press had asked him a strange question. It was generally dismissed as unimportant.

Roger vanished in the semis, which was a mild surprise but not worthy of more than a comment, and the tournament moved on.

The final had two players; there were around six more who stayed to watch, one of whom was present at the court in person.

The next day, a British tabloid ran a scurrilous story about an ace tennis player attending a certain type of establishment.

It was smutty insinuation so most players rolled their eyes and got on with things. Some of them gossiped good-naturedly, playing guessing games and laughing as the speculation got wilder and more improbable.

There was one group that met each other with loud hails of amusement, each insisting the other was the unnamed ‘ace’.

Nobody took it seriously and nobody bothered to ask questions.

A day into the French Open, the British tabloid published another story. This one named Roger specifically and insisted that the establishment catered exclusively to gay men.

Roddick almost fell over when Murray told him, his face a mixture of avid shock and complete disbelief.

“You’re serious?” he asked, “Roger?”

“It’s all over the internet,” Murray said, “A mate just called to tell me the tennis websites are going nuts.”

“Shit,” Roddick said, still stunned, “Roger’s going to be mad.”

On the other side of the room, another conversation was taking place- “I knew it,” Djokovic insisted, “I said many times but nobody listen to me. I tell them. He has too much fashion and perfume.”

The little group of three laughed as Djokovic ended his speech with a quick parody sketch, complete with sashaying hips and limp wrist. It wasn’t meant with malice but the factions were beginning to show.

The general consensus was that any player was free to do what he wanted in his own time so long as he kept it out of the locker rooms and didn’t hassle anybody. It helped if he played well.

Roger most certainly played well. When he did show his face, it was not smiling. He was angry and it showed on court. He moved Blake through an efficient annihilation. He smiled in public, and waved, and appeared not to notice or comprehend the few scattered questions and comments that were yelled in his direction.

He went back to the locker room and someone congratulated him. He answered pleasantly enough. But Roger made no move to engage anyone else in conversation. He kept his eyes and his hands to himself.

By the next day, the news was all over Paris. There were reports that the British tabloid had the exclusive rights to a witness’s testimony. The witness, it was suggested, could state with actual certainty and with remarkable detail the things that Roger had allegedly got up to in this club.

The factions were beginning to show a bit more.

The Russians generally just found it good fun. They spoke about it quickly and easily, laughing and dismissing it all one breath.

The Americans were mostly stunned and a little bit taken aback, but they seemed determined not to let it interfere with their interactions with Roger.

The Argentineans were sceptical about the quality of the news. However, the implication was that they didn’t like this personal fact being introduced into spaces they had to share.

The Spanish… the Spanish were divided within themselves. They didn’t necessarily like it. But they didn’t necessarily take umbrage. A couple of them argued for, a couple of them argued against, some of them advised caution, others argued for utter disinterest in the subject.

As a whole, the players stuck together and made no comment on it.

Roger played his matches. He refused to answer any questions in his press conferences beyond the fact that he had never been to that club and that his private life was private. Mirka was on hand and the presence of her standing silently to the side was enough to bring more facets to the frenzy.

Press directed questions to her, asking if she believed the rumours. They asked if she intended to stand by her boyfriend of ten years.

Mirka steadfastly refused to speak.

Otherwise, they were their usual picture of quiet unity. They came and went as they always did, a little more wary but willing to be friendly.

After his first match, Roger didn’t keep himself to himself.

Novak, for all his mockery, approached first with some smart remark that was on the wrong side of tasteless.

When Roger stared blankly at him, Djokovic broke into a grin and punched his shoulder lightly, saying, “It was joke, Roger, joke. Sorry, ah? I’m being funny.”

It hadn’t been funny, but Roger, after one dark moment, had smiled and gone along with it, willing to take the gesture at face value.

The Americans had promptly moved in and set up a hovering bodyguard, as if determined to uphold the values of peace and justice. Andy seemed to be leading that little gang for the immediate moment but some thought Mardy might have taken on some power behind the scenes.

Interestingly enough, Haas was moving with them. And if none of the Americans were around, Tommy could be counted on to be doing something perfectly reasonable close by.

The Russians seemed to be with Djokovic, enjoying the sensation but not actually concerned. If, in the course of having their fun, they happened to be crueller than was necessary, they absolved themselves from blame on the basis that it was unintentional.

The Argentines kept their distance. They had no problems with Roger per say but they seemed to find the situation discomfiting. Nalbandian was on their side, and while Roger did have a conversation with the man in the locker rooms wearing only a towel, Nalbandian was too careful to look him in the eye.

Roger got his revenge. He dispatched Del Potro in a straight win that looked effortless and ruthless.

The Spanish didn’t take sides in any obvious manner. They were still undecided. Moya seemed to be against, Ferrerro seemed to be for. Nadal didn’t seem to notice that there was anything wrong at all. He did get asked about it in his pressers; he said he didn’t care about it so long as they could still play great matches together.

Roger also found himself with partners for practise, both Lopez and Verdasco offering him their services within five minutes of his arrival.

The alliances were starting to show.

The witness was duly presented and the story began to grow sordid. He claimed to work in the club, but in what capacity nobody bothered to report, and he claimed that Roger Federer was a frequent visitor. He claimed Roger had come in for a while with different men, rarely the same on successive visits, until the last two years when it had been the same face again and again. He claimed the two were in a relationship.

Roger lost his fourth round match to Gulbis and packed up. He flew out of Paris without giving a statement beyond the fact that his private life was private and that he denied ever being in the club.

As the Murray brothers said quietly, “That doesn’t mean he isn’t being outed in every paper in the world.”

The papers reported that Roger flew to Dubai and that his family was with him as he prepared for his next tournament.

There were rumours that Nike was in a flap, torn between the possible boost to their image, and their natural worry about watching their expensive investment dragged into the mud. In the end they chose not to terminate their sponsorship.

Few of his endorsement contracts ended. One company did pull out but that was done quietly and without the attentions of the press.

Roger didn’t appear to mind. That particular contract had been running out and it was a national one, limited to Germany. It had been a lucrative contract, though.

He received texts and emails from people, some of them blatantly stating their support, some of them merely withholding judgement by virtue of casual inanity.

Surprisingly, Safin called him directly on the phone.

“Yes?” he asked.

“You’re in shit,” the Russian said disparately.

Roger didn’t quite know what to say to that. “It’s rubbish, you know,” he said.

“I know.”

And Marat did. They knew the other, and recognized the other for what they were and were not. That was all there was to it.

Marat asked him if he had experienced any fall out.

Roger admitted that so far he had been lucky. The major bulk of the world seemed supportive.

Marat was a little quiet. And then, “There are some in the tennis who don’t like it.”

“I know,” Roger said.

He’d seen the looks and he’d been privy to the cold shoulders. He had also happened to overhear some of the comments.

“You know Dmitry think you are a pervert?” Marat asked directly.

“No. He didn’t say anything to me. Well, he won’t, you know.”

“He think you are pervert,” Marat repeated firmly.

“Okay. Thanks.” Roger put up a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Safin didn’t really do small talk but before he left he said one thing, “You’ll be at Halle?”

“Yeah.”

“Good luck.”

That was the end of the phone call, ambiguous and open-ended.

Five days before Halle, Roger gave a press conference releasing Mirka from her role as his shield and admitting that he was gay. He denied ever having been in the club and insisted that he didn’t know the alleged witness.

Then he took off immediately for Germany, head down and apparently focused on tennis.

Marat found him on the practise courts, practising his serves. He stopped, at first, and watched leisurely, eyes automatically picking each movement apart to see where the weakness lay.

Roger saw him and paused.

Marat merely nodded. Then he gestured to the empty space across the net.

Roger nodded back.

Marat took up his place across.

They hit for a moment, measuring each other in a loose, easy rally. And then Marat added a bit more power and Roger’s competitive streak rose to the occasion.

He played with the single-minded determination of pushing his opponent to his knees and keeping him there. Marat didn’t offer much resistance. Roger almost complained about that but stopped himself in time.

He tried to return to the loose, easy strokes they had started with. It wasn’t as helpful. He was jittery, unable to concentrate. He played on autopilot while Marat cursed and muttered over his backhand.

When they finished, Marat came over to talk to him at the net.

“Stay away from Ferrer,” he said abruptly.

Roger was surprised. “Why?”

“Catholic,” Marat said simply.

“Oh.” Roger grimaced. “And Dmitry. You told me that.”

“No,” Marat replied, putting his gear away, “Dmitry won’t say to you anything. He will be okay.”

“Oh?”

“He told me,” Marat continued, “He said it is a shame you are a pervert. He likes you. But what can you do, eh? If you talk with him, he will talk with you.”

“I’m not really going to talk to a guy who thinks I’m, you know, a pervert,” Roger murmured.

“You care what Dmitry thinks?” Marat shrugged, “Even I don’t care what he thinks. Why do you?”

Roger had to smile at that. Marat’s confidence was catching and it felt oddly reassuring to have someone who merely banked up his defences and then let him go forth and do battle on his own.

Unlike the Americans, who began to annoy him with their defensive tactics. Roger found them glaring at anyone who looked at him for too long. People who were otherwise neutral began to edge away from him because the Americans were simply too protective. It wasn’t a natural state of affairs and no one wanted to deal with a war.

Factions were growing clearer by the day. By the time the tournament was in full swing, Roger was treated to a sudden shift in the wind.

From nowhere, a handler managed to get him alone in a room and asked diffidently if he would maybe like to have a drink with him.

Roger replied that he didn’t drink, to which the man suggested that they eat instead, since he was sure even elite athletes had to eat at some point.

Roger gently turned him down and contrived to regain his calm in time for his post-match presser. He continued to refuse to answer questions about his private life, his sexuality, his views on gay rights, and a score of other topics that he felt were too sensitive.

A reporter had the temerity to ask how his family was taking the news. Roger said that they were supportive.

The reporter tried to ask about Mirka next but Roger shut him down abruptly. The hint was taken and he answered a few general questions about his opponent, the four break points he had failed to capitalize upon and his upcoming match with Wawrinka.

With a start, Roger realized that of all the people he had heard from, Stan had not been among them.

He gave his pre-prepared answers and the presser wound down. He went to his hotel room and sank down into a corner of the couch, head propped in his hand as he tried to recall the last time he had spoken with Stan.

They had been cheerful, joking about something- he couldn’t remember what. They weren’t good friends, as such, but Roger had thought they got along quite well. Yves had been in contact; Stan hadn’t.

The Swiss contingent, small as it was, was evidently useless to him.

The hotel suite was devoid of other people. Roger hadn’t wanted his family to attend, feeling that they had been exposed to enough stress already.

Roger took out his phone and stared at it. Fingers moving jerkily, he dialled the number he knew by heart and waited, chest tight.

It went to voice message.

Roger sighed. “Hi, Phil. It’s Roger. Just… the press is still quite bad, you know, so I was wondering if you are okay. I’m really sorry about this. I hope you’re okay.”

He switched it off and threw it across the room in frustration. It landed unharmed on the carpet and stayed there, face turned to the ceiling.

Roger got up and went to bed, tired of thinking too much.

He had no match the next day and when he walked into the player’s lounge, there were no Americans around. Haas was nowhere to be seen.

It was, he considered, perhaps the first time since the scandal that there had been no immediate protection. It was both irritating and frightening. It made him awkward.

Which lasted until he felt a hand on his arm.

“Roger, don’t you sleep?”

He turned and Marat was there, face down turned because they were close enough to feel their difference in height. He looked up and the sardonic grin that played along those lips was the most normal thing he’d seen for weeks.     

“I’ve been up since seven,” he said.

And Marat rolled his eyes. “I bet you do jogging,” he said, clearly not intending it as a compliment, “Or you do stretches or something. I bet you do all the things a good little tennis player is supposed to do.”

“Yes,” Roger said, and made it sound like a joke.

Marat grinned and said, “Okay, then, Mr. Tennis Player, are you practising with someone? I need to aim at targets and your shirt,” he looked at the blue, “Will be bright.”

Roger had to laugh. He followed on because Marat was always ineffably self-willed.

The second practise session was less intense. Roger relaxed and they made it work, even though Marat got bored with Roger’s concentrated desire for perfection and took to hitting wild returns that had an equal chance of going out as of going in.

Roger enjoyed the grass beneath his feet and sought to reclaim his old rhythm. He had this tournament to get through, and then he was aiming for Wimbledon. He intended to take the title from Nadal. It would be one way to regain some respect.

When they were done, Marat excused himself and Roger returned to his hotel room alone.

There was no reply from Phillip. Roger hadn’t expected that there would be.

Whoever the witness was, and Roger still had no idea what his name was, his information had been correct in some ways. There had been a two-year relationship. It had ended in January, before Roger had left for Australia and after Phil had found someone else. Interestingly enough, a twenty-three year old student at the university.

Roger could see the reasoning behind that shift in alliance. Phillip had had his eyes full of stars when they started, and then had learned the hard way that it was impossible to maintain a love affair when one half was travelling the world and pretending his lover didn’t exist.

It didn’t hurt any less for being reasonable.

As the tournament went on, Roger found himself watching the gangs and alliances that seemed to be taking part in this.

Roddick was doing well on the grass, and he was in with a good chance if he could make it to the semis. In light of his preoccupation with his game, he was less inclined to organize rallies to protect Roger.

The Russians had moved on. Roger wondered if Safin hadn’t had a hand in that but he doubted it. Marat was interestingly remote from his countrymen, appearing more often with the French or the Germans.

Haas was out and Roger didn’t expect to see him anytime soon.

Gasquet was blatantly avoiding him, and the French as a whole appeared to keep him at arms’ length. Roger had been dealt a public rebuff at one point that he had taken philosophically to heart. He didn’t approach them any more.

The Spanish were also reticent. Some, like Lopez and Verdasco, seemed to be fine. Others, like Moya, were less friendly.

Roger saw Moya with the Argentines a few times, engaged in quiet conversation in accented English as if they had been friends all their lives.

Ferrer was with the French and, as far as he could tell, Tursunov.

Nadal talked to him about Mallorca and football, both of them in the player’s lounge, with Roddick standing by and Ferrerr glaring across the room.

When Roger did meet Wawrinka, it was in the context of the match. Stan was pleasant, though appropriately serious, and it felt like old times as they faced each other across the net.

At the end of the match, when Roger had beaten him, Roger experienced a sudden attack of uncertainty and didn’t know whether to extend his hand or offer a hug. Stan had been good, very good. Roger wanted to congratulate him on that.

Stan took his hand, but wrapped an arm around his shoulders as they walked to the umpire, congratulating him on the win as if nothing had changed.

When they were off-court, Stan withdrew.

Roger carefully put Stan out of his friends and into his acquaintance. It seemed to be what Stan wanted for the moment, and Roger was too tired and dispirited to argue.

He focused on his tennis and attempted to put the idea of factions and alliances out of his mind but the world was now rife with it. The press didn’t deem him a normal player any more. They mentioned him in context of his sexuality, of the scandal, and sometimes those two were not considered separate. He saw groups form even within the neutral factions, where those who would talk to him separated out from those who wouldn’t refuse to talk to him. 

Then there were other factions. Those people who would go out of their way to meet with him, talk and laugh as if to prove a point to everyone around them. Those people gave Roger a headache and he sometimes wondered whether he was mad or they were.

And Nadal still had nothing to say about the situation.

Roger had originally put him into the acquaintances’ category, assuming Nadal would follow the rest. But the man continued as warm and affectionate as he always was. Even more so than the supportive side of the Spanish group, Rafa was content to ignore the media hype and continue the way they always had. He did stop touching him as much but Roger had expected that.

Another tennis player came to him and admitted that he was gay. Roger made it clear that he was not intending to play confidante to the tormented gay souls who felt repressed by the ATP’s ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy.

He insisted that all he cared about was tennis, and whatever happened elsewhere was his business.

An Australian paper uncovered Phillip’s name and Roger read the resultant surge of media with a sick feeling in his stomach. He refrained from leaving another message, smart enough to take the hint.

When Wimbledon came around, Roger concentrated on each round, each match.

He strove to put the factions and alliances out of his mind. He was well aware of the jokes behind his back- Hewitt’s sniggering comment that if Gasquet really wanted to throw Federer off his game, he should wear something tight and bend over a lot.

Roger had broken Gasquet’s game perhaps a little too hard just in the interests of putting that joke to rest.

The English papers continued along the general theme, patronizing his big comeback as the work of a man obsessed with proving that gay athletes could be better than their heterosexual counterparts. The English tabloids, however, had far more fun making comments about his interest in mens’ fashion and his desire to hit balls all day. 

Roger grit his teeth and concentrated on the tennis. By the time he reached Nadal, it was the quarterfinals, not the finals.

They were expecting it to a big match. They were expecting fireworks. Roger had everything to prove and Rafael had everything to protect.

Both proved and protected and attacked as if their lives depended upon it.

At the end, when the ball sailed past the baseline, Roger fell over and simply shouted with the sheer joy of it, the exhilaration mingling with the victory and nothing else in the world mattered at that time except for the match he had just won.

He sat up, getting to his feet as he finally began to take stock of his surroundings.

The fans were being kind, supportive. They clapped, at least in respect for the match if not for either of the players. Rafael was walking towards the net, dripping wet and racquet held loose in hand, clearly disappointed with himself.

Roger toned down his exultation enough to jog over, hand already outstretched.

He saw the smile and Rafa was laughing at him. He felt his hand taken, and then released as he was pulled into a hug.

That, he hadn’t been expecting. Roger stiffened in shock, his hands going immediately to Rafa’s shoulders, whether to push him away or return the hold, he wasn’t sure. It seemed impossibly stupid to set them both up in such a public way.

Rafa let him go and patted his cheek, whispering quickly in English to say that it was a good match, a good fight.

Roger stepped away and moved out of the reach of those hands as they walked to the umpire.

As they walked away from the court, Roger watched some heads turn in Rafa’s direction, ugly speculation written all over their faces.

Rafael was oblivious. He was far more concerned with his loss, and his frustration and disappointment were clearly there to be seen. For the defending champion to be taken out in the quarterfinals was an upset. The pundits were already pinning the victory on Roger, even though Djokovic and Murray were still in the running.

It was in the showers that the trouble started.

It was expected for there to be some fall out. Rafa had acted without thinking, doing what he had got into the habit of doing. 

Roger didn’t hear the exchange himself, though he remembered conversations happening in and around the shower stalls. He didn’t participate; it was the only way to avoid conflict.

The next thing he heard was flesh smacking into tile.

He assumed someone had slipped because there was a sudden yell, a sudden commotion. He shut his eyes and didn’t react at first, feeling cut off from the others by virtue of vulnerability.

But then he placed Rafa’s voice, deep and rough and very loud, echoing off the tiles.

He grabbed his towel and wrapped it around his waist, stepping out of the cubicle to see what in the world was going on.

Rafa had one of the players face first into the tile, was bellowing something at him in Spanish and Roger wasn’t concerned with who it was or what was going to happen, so much as the fact that people had noticed his arrival on the scene.

It wasn’t hard to put it together. Rafa did not lash out violently. If it happened in the showers, then it was probably not anything to do with a critique of his forehand.

Roger’s brain had already calculated that.

He went to Rafa, put his hands on the big shoulders and pulled.

Rafa came away easily and it turned out to be Baghdatis of all people.

Baghdatis was yelling right back, and Rafa was still shouting loudly in Spanish, keyed up and challenging. Roger tried to interject but Rafa turned on him and told him to shut up and stay away.

Roger backed away immediately.

Someone said he shouldn’t have got involved. It wasn’t polite to get in the middle of a disagreement between two players. That wasn’t how it worked on the tours.

Someone else was already where Roger had been, pulling Rafa away and telling him quickly and harshly to stop making a fool of himself.

Someone else had a hand on Baghdatis’ chest, pushing him away from Rafa and standing between the two just in case.

Roger still had no idea what had really been said. But two of the spectators were giving him dirty looks, as if he had caused it all in some way.

And then Baghdatis lunged and Rafa was more than ready for him.

The tussle lasted all of a minute but it was in a whirling, snarling, spitting group of eight people taking sides.

Roger simply walked out. He got dressed, he shut his locker and he went to do his presser.

The next day he heard that a steep fine had been levied for the fight, and the old men in the coats were not pleased in the least with what the English so quaintly called ‘unsporting behaviour’. He himself got a severe reprimand for not doing more to stop it.

The factions got worse.

The Spanish were with Rafa. Except for Robredo, who seemed to have defected to stand with the Argentines. Moya had returned to his compatriots, complicating matters as he juggled the two. Some, like Ferrero, were refusing to take sides at all.

The Americans were not sided but Roger found himself with a bodyguard again. This time Haas was with Baghdatis, on the grounds that Baghdatis was the wronged party.

The French were also on Baghdatis’ side, but Simon was publicly still on speaking terms with the Spanish.

Djokovic was, interestingly enough, nowhere. He was out of the tournament and he hadn’t stayed.

Roger caught sight of him, however, before his last match, and the man looked as if he would rather be anywhere else but at Wimbledon.

Roger sympathized. He could not conceive of anything more disturbing that this turn of events. 

Tennis was a solitary game, a competition between two or four. It was not a game for team allegiances. But the wheels were now turning and battle lines were sketched. Sides were picked. First blood had been drawn and no one was bothering to ask why, content to stand by social contracts and play their parts. It would have been funny if it hadn’t been so vicious.

Out of everything that could have happened, Roger had not expected to be the cause for that.

It was Roddick to finally ran him to ground in his hotel bar, a single glass of scotch in front of him. Andy didn’t bother asking his permission to sit down. He dropped into a chair and stretched his legs out.

“Hey,” he said.

Roger nodded at him.

“So, good match yesterday,” Andy continued.

“Thanks. You too. Today, you know. It was good.”

Andy tilted his head, as if to examine Roger from another angle, “It’s getting to you, huh? The in-fighting?”

Roger didn’t say anything at first and then said, as casually as he could, “Before Monday, you know, I could go in the locker room and not care about someone threatening me.”

“Someone threatened you?” Andy’s voice had sharpened.

Roger looked at him intently. “What are you going to do, Andy? Be there every time I’m in the locker room? It’s fine, you know, I can handle it. But I didn’t have to before.”

“I heard from Moya about Nadal. Know what he said?”

“No.”

“No, because you haven’t talked to him.”

“He’s back in Mallorca,” Roger said, “I heard from Verdasco. I’ve got enough shit to deal with, without, well, running around thinking of Rafa.”

“Good point. But he said Baghdatis asked him if you two were an item. Said something about Rafa’s ass and too much touching.”

Roger choked on his whiskey. “Are you mad?”

“Hey, I didn’t say it. You should have asked Nadal.”

“He told me to go away.”

“You’re a big fucking baby, you know that?” Andy pointed out, “I don’t get it, man. People are shitty to you and you just… you take it. Why? It doesn’t help anything.”

Roger sipped his whiskey again. “I’m Swiss,” he said ironically, “I’m neutral, remember?”

“Fuck neutral. Never mind Rafa and Baghdatis, that wasn’t your business, but the rest of it. I mean, come on! They do everything but spit on you and you don’t care? What are you, masochistic?”

Roger looked suitably revolted. “No.”

“I know, Rog, I know. You’re not. But you’re acting like it. Look at Rafa. Some guy says something about him and he hauls off and smacks him into the tiles. It’s not perfect but it does the job. No one’s going to touch him now.”

“Oh, they will,” Roger said confidently, “If he’s not fighting in the locker rooms, he’ll be fighting on court. They’ll push him hard now. And it won’t be fun any more, you know. He’ll have to fight. That’s what they plan, at least.”

“You make it sound like a war.”

“It is in tennis.”

“Jesus,” Andy muttered, “No wonder Mardy said we should stay out of it.”

“Mardy said that?”

“Mardy’s smart, man. He sees things.”

 Roger nodded abstractly.

From an outside view, the tournament lacked excitement and fire. There was an air of confusion that leaked out from the inner workings onto the courts. The spectators didn’t know what it was but the players did.

After Roger had kissed his trophy again, he found the enjoyment dissipated faster than he had expected. The game was overshadowed by its factions.

He called a time out to his year and went back to Basel, refusing to play at the next scheduled event on the grounds that his ankle was playing up again. His doctors obligingly agreed to cover for him.

Roger ignored the photographers that jumped out from behind trees to catch an image of him walking down the streets.

He watched the tapes he still kept of old matches and it was unusually silly to worry about where he fit in the factions when the game was all he could see.

The general body of players had always agreed that the sport was the main focus. Who and what played it shouldn’t matter when they were on court. It was a profession, and they aimed to treat it professionally.

Except now they were scrapping and biting behind the scenes, either too distracted or too invested to be entirely professional

Roger wasn’t being professional. He knew it. He admitted it to himself and those close to him. Diana told him he was worrying too much about where he stood. Roger agreed with her logically but logic was not what was driving this new state of affairs.

Stan texted him.

It was a brief line saying hello but Roger took it as a good omen and returned it as casually as he could. He waited for twenty-three minutes by the clock before sending his reply.

Phillip called.

The conversation was stilted. Roger apologized for the unwanted media attention; Phillip apologized for the way it had ended.

Marat called and Roger found they had very little to say. The strain of neutrality was showing itself in Safin’s voice as he talked about Gulbis or Monfils. Marat wanted to talk tennis; Roger couldn’t see tennis without factions any more. Anyway, Marat was retiring. His support was quite simply irrelevant to Roger.

That call was less that reassuring.

Roger was bored stiff and training was doing nothing to alleviate his restlessness.

So he went to Mallorca, knocked at Rafa’s door, and relished the look of shock on Rafa’s face.

“What you doing here, Roger?” Rafa asked.

“Wanted to see how you were,” Roger shrugged, “How are you?”

“Fine.” Rafa looked down at his knee, currently supported by the tape. “Is better than I hope, no? I play a little now.”

“Good. Look, I’m sorry if I made things worse for you, you know, with the other players. I didn’t think they’d get so bad about it.”

Rafa just looked at him. And then shook his head as if Roger had completely misunderstood something. He held up a hand and vanished inside. When he returned, a moment later, it was with a jacket in hand.

He ushered Roger out and shut the door behind him. He locked it. And then pointed to the beach.

“All these people,” Rafa said, “They no think tennis now, no? I hate that. Is not right.”

Roger blinked at the waves rolling in. “Factions,” he said.

“What?”

“Factions. Like groups, um, you know, taking sides.”

“Si. Factions. There is factions and no tennis, no? It make me angry. I no care who you have the sex with, no? Is not my business. I play. You play. That is all.”

Roger would have applauded that at one time. He still wanted to. But the world had changed and shifted, and no one could afford to remain completely neutral. Everyone had an agenda; everyone had a background.

“What do you think of me?” he asked.

“What I think no matter, Rogelio."

The nickname should have been enough. Rafa hadn’t used it in months and Roger had not thought to hear it again. But then, Rafa had already hugged him openly in front of millions, and had withstood the insinuations that resulted. Perhaps, Roger thought distantly, better than he himself had.

“Honestly, Rafa, what do you think of me?”

Rafa looked uncomfortable but he scratched the back of his neck and sighed. “I think you are good tennis player. I think I not understand why you have no spirit to fight off court now.”

“What?”

“You stay quiet; no one see you. They say what they like and you no answer back. Why? I can only think you no like the fight. On court you say everything. You beat them, no? But off-court, you are soft.”

Roger blinked. He hadn’t expected to hear that.

And then Rafa continued. “Then I think you are better than me at this. Me, I shout. I punch. I get fines, no? From officials? But you know more; you say ‘I no care to speak of gay or no gay’ and you play tennis. Is best way.”

“What?” Roger said again.

“Toni tell me, ‘if you want to play tennis, you play tennis. If you want to change world, be socialista’. That is right, no?”

“You can’t separate who you are from what you do,” Roger sighed, “I tried. It didn’t work.”

“You no try right.”

“What?”

“If you try right, you no have Mirka to hide, no? You say ‘here is me’ and then you play tennis.”

“Did Toni say that too?” Roger asked.

Rafa laughed. “No, Xisca.”

“I should hire your girlfriend to do my PR.”

“I will tell her. She can apply to you.”

Roger grinned.

And then Rafa spoke again calmly, “I think I am in your faction.”

Roger didn’t say anything in reply. He let his toes sink into the sand and watched the water trail back out to sea.

“You no ask me why,” Rafa commented.

“Should I?”

Rafa smiled at him.

“Why, then?” Roger asked.

“I feel like you,” Rafa said casually, “And I have no girlfriend. Xisca is gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have dinner with me.”

“Look, I think this is a little rushed, you know, and …”

“I no ask for date, Rogelio. Come to dinner with me. As friend. And we talk tennis. No gay or politic or how Carlos is a stupid ass, no? Just tennis.”

“Just tennis,” Roger echoed.

“And maybe we have our faction, no?”

“Of gay men?” Roger asked acerbically.

“I no gay, Rogelio. Andy say the English word is bisexual. Me, I no care man, woman, goat. If I love, I love.”

“Goat?”

“Well, no goat, maybe. That is weird, no? To have sex with goat?”

“Yeah,” Roger laughed.

Rafa grinned and elbowed him. “Hey, how you know I am in Mallorca?" 

Roger looked at him and wondered how to say it. “Well, Marat called me. He’s with the French, and the French are sort of more with Baghdatis, you know, and they take his side and I know they’re feeling okay right now because Marat said they were. Stan texted me, and Stan’s neutral. He couldn’t do that unless things were dying down. Well, he could take sides but I don’t think he would take sides against me, you know, so I hoped things were dying down. The Russians I don’t keep in contact with but they’re easy to read, you know, like the Argentines, they’re all on tennis again so I thought it was because things were getting better. I knew I wasn’t there but if you were there, it wouldn’t be so okay, so I knew you weren’t there, you know. It was pretty simple.”

Rafa stared at him and then patted him on the arm. “You could call me,” he said gently, “And ask, no? Why no talk with people? Why think they no speak with you?”

“Because they haven’t been for a few months. Not since it came out,” Roger said gently.

“Really? That bad?”

“That bad.”

“Stupid,” Rafa said disparagingly.

Roger thought about everything that had happened since the news had broken. “Yes,” he said, “Yes, they are.” 


End file.
